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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27231961">Good Soldiers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual'>Decepticonsensual</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Behind Every Beautiful Thing (Whumptober 2020) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:41:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,366</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27231961</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In the midst of this new Imperial stronghold, where every subject with even a scrap of power (from the Emperor’s personal guard down to the stormtroopers in their bastardisations of GAR armour) is human and only human, Plo is like a captive wild animal. A thing for the lowest Imperial soldier to feel superior to, and to remind the terrified envoys from non-human worlds of their place.</i>
</p>
<p>For Whumptober 2020 - prompt:  "IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY - <strike>“Pick Who Dies”</strike> | <b>Collars</b> | <strike>Kidnapped</strike>"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Behind Every Beautiful Thing (Whumptober 2020) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983176</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Good Soldiers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A post-Revenge of the Sith AU.  Warnings for imprisonment, being bound, racism/dehumanisation (towards a fictional race, but obviously the same elements are there), brainwashing, brief reference to a death wish, non-con non-sexual touching (basically Palpatine being a creep), and references to canon death.  This is a pure whump, hurt-but-no-comfort fic; please be warned.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The irony, Plo knows, is that Palpatine didn’t even particularly want him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After all, Yoda was Palpatine’s great rival (though only one of them really understood that, until the very end). Mace Windu, as the other major voice on the Council, was a powerful obstacle in his way. Anakin Skywalker was his prize, and Obi-Wan Kenobi the one trying to keep that prize from him. Plo was yet another interchangeable Jedi Councillor, constantly in and out of the Chancellor’s office on business and barely meriting a glance unless he happened to disagree with Palpatine on some matter. Plo should have fallen with his brothers and sisters on that terrible day.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sometimes, he wishes he had.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But Mace is dead. Yoda is vanished, along with Obi-Wan; Plo can only hope that they got out and are marshalling their strength somewhere far away. And Skywalker – well, even with his Force abilities dampened by the hateful circle of metal around his neck, Plo can sense the truth. Even if he had no Force sensitivity at all, it would take very little deduction to put together the mysterious masked Sith Lord at Palpatine’s side with the young man the Emperor-to-be took such an interest in. But everything Plo remembers of his friend’s padawan – of little ’Soka’s mentor – has been burned away. Skywalker is wholly the Emperor’s now. And an impressive symbol of Palpatine’s power he makes: a very vicious dog, on a very slender leash only one man can hold.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The shadow of Darth Vader standing faithfully at his side is not enough for Palpatine, though. Deprived of most of his prizes, he must have a trophy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is a surprising strength in Palpatine’s thin fingers as they hook through Plo’s collar and tug him hard against the side of the Imperial throne.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Where was your mind wandering, beast?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Plo doesn’t answer. He isn’t there to answer. He made that mistake more than once, early on, and still carries the scars from it. He’s realised by now that he is, first and foremost, a display: bound beside the Emperor, lengths of chain running from the shackles on his wrists to loops set in the floor, and a third chain running down from the dampening collar. Enough slack for the Emperor to use as a makeshift choke lead, but not enough to allow Plo to stand, or even sit properly upright. In the midst of this new Imperial stronghold, where every subject with even a scrap of power (from the Emperor’s personal guard down to the stormtroopers in their bastardisations of GAR armour) is human and only human, Plo is like a captive wild animal. A thing for the lowest Imperial soldier to feel superior to, and to remind the terrified envoys from non-human worlds of their place.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The doors at the far end of the hall part, and Skywa– and <em>Vader </em>strides through them, flanked by a unit of stormtroopers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Keeping his head tilted down, Plo surveys them from under his goggles. He may no longer be able to distinguish each individual in the Force, but he’s been cataloguing the soldiers he encounters by height, by gait, by mannerism. (To what end, he can’t say, but information is information… and without <em>some </em>way to keep his attention tethered to this moment, there’s little else for his ravaged mind to do but relive having almost everyone he loves ripped from it. Some part of him <em>wants</em> to just curl around that wound as it festers and bleeds, and he knows that if he allows it, he’ll eventually lose his way back out of those memories.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The sterile white armour, without a fleck of paint or personality, is misleading at first, but experience tells Plo this is a mixed unit – three relatively new recruits, but also two veterans. The latter are undoubtedly clones, judging by how they move. He watches them with an ache under his breastbone. Whether Palpatine has decided that his new troops will no longer be trained as the GAR once was, or whether the clones themselves aren’t imparting everything they know to their replacements – and oh, Plo wants to believe that, that there could be some spark of defiance there – the way the few remaining clones move is distinct, unmistakeable. It’s as familiar to Plo as…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His eyes narrow as he watches the second of the two veterans.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is a spareness to the way this man moves. It speaks of power kept just under the surface, a kind of coiled wildness under the skin.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Plo can’t breathe, he can’t <em>breathe.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Vader is making his report to the Emperor, all the while steadfastly ignoring Plo’s existence… and yet Plo spots the tiniest flick of Vader’s attention to him when he says, “It was Commander Wolffe who picked up the fugitive Jedi’s trail, my Master.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The clone veteran – the one Plo <em>knows, </em>and <em>knows </em>he knows, as much as his mind is screaming its defiance of the idea – draws himself to attention under the Emperor’s gaze.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Indeed.” The Emperor sounds luxuriantly bored. “You are familiar with the tricks of the Jedi, then? Speak.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“My lord, I served under a Jedi general during the war.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ah. A relic.” The Emperor’s lip curls slightly. “Which?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is not so much as a quaver in that familiar voice. “General Plo Koon, my lord.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And now there’s a spark of interest in the Emperor’s eye. He addresses his underling without bothering to look at him, turning his gaze instead to Plo. “Remove your helmet.”</p>
<p>Plo keeps his own eyes turned to the ground, until a particular vicious tug on his collar forces his head up. There’s a sickening kind of glee in the Emperor’s gaze. Plo recoils, turning his head sharply away, and that’s a mistake, because –</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wolffe.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s standing so very near, his eyes fixed dutifully on a point above the Emperor’s head, seeming for all the world as if he hasn’t even noticed Plo chained there. All this time, Plo hasn’t known whether he was still alive. Wolffe’s gaze is like his armour, now, smooth and blank.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Palpatine’s bony fingers tighten just enough to restrict Plo’s air a little, and he asks idly, “Did you enjoy serving under your Jedi, clone?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“The Jedi are traitors. It is right that they be punished, my lord,” Wolffe rattles off. Plo is watching him hungrily, looking for any hint of the man he loves, and there’s nothing, nothing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Emperor smiles without humour. “Good. <em>Good. </em>You must hate them, indeed, your former masters. After all...” His fingertips rake over Plo’s throat, sharp points of cold. “You’ve been so <em>eager </em>to carry out that punishment.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Good soldiers follow orders,” says Wolffe, and there isn’t so much as a flicker in his expression, not so much as a crack in -</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Wolffe’s hands are shaking.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s the minutest tremble. One would have to know Wolffe very well to see; and as soon as Plo notices, he wrenches his gaze back to Wolffe’s face, not wanting to draw any attention. Instead, he reaches out with his mind, pouring what strength he has into shoving hard against the smothering weight of the collar. <em>Wolffe, can you hear me?</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>His mind brushes Wolffe’s… and he feels Wolffe’s mind cringe away, as clearly as if he’d cried out at the contact. Plo reels. In that single touch he sensed such guilt, such roiling fear. He stretches out again, even as Wolffe’s presence shrinks away, even as Palpatine’s eyes on Plo turn suspicious: <em>Please, Wolffe – !</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“My Master,” Vader’s voice cuts in. “We should hunt down this traitor while the trail is fresh. I shall bring him in chains to kneel before you.” Plo must be imagining things, because it seems like those vacant eyes of black glass tilt slightly – warningly – towards him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Emperor turns at Vader’s interruption, and drums his fingers on the arm of his throne as he watches him bow. Tiny blue sparks flare from his fingertips. The air is suddenly heavy with ozone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then, just as abruptly, Palpatine sits up and the sparks dissipate. “Deliver him to me, Lord Vader,” he orders. Vader nods, once, and turns, his men falling in line behind him. And then they’re gone.</p>
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